


The Second Son

by ohwhatagloomyshow



Category: The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohwhatagloomyshow/pseuds/ohwhatagloomyshow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shadow by the basement door moved, and she found it within herself to murmur out a, “Good night, Max,” before she settled on her left and closed her eyes.</p><p>It barely took her a second to recognize her mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second Son

She couldn’t be sure what woke her—the shifting of Hans’s weight on the bed, perhaps, or a muffled, nightmared gasp from the girl in her room. It didn’t matter, because her eyes were open and taking in the soft orange glow from the dying fire, and she was too tired for any of that nonsense. She groaned, and rolled onto her other side, hoping this midnight consciousness would not last.

As she did, a shadow by the basement door moved, and she found it within herself to murmur out a, “Good night, Max,” before she settled on her left and closed her eyes. 

It barely took her a second to recognize her mistake. 

Her jolt up made the bed springs groan beneath her, and Hans mumbled through a half-conscious noise before he fell back asleep. Her hair was a messy curtain around her face and she ignored it as she climbed out from under the covers, and half-ran to that bleak black empty doorway. 

Nothing and no one. 

“Max.” She whispered it, once, with her palm on the doorway, and handed the name down into the basement. She closed her eyes for several moments. 

She could see him, standing in the kitchen, the goodbye very solid and awkward on his mouth. He played with it, shifted it around on his tongue, but in the end all that came out was, “Thank you.” He looked from her to him and walked out the door. She had been frozen, could not have moved for horror, and shame. 

The darkness was soft around her and encouraged her to take a seat on that first step with tired limbs. After a moment she held her face in her hands, even as her back ached as she leaned forward, elbows on knees, hair a halo around her worn hands. 

The stunned look on his face, beyond words—beyond emotion as he struggled to meet her gaze. “There were stars. They burned my eyes.” 

Emaciated in the boy’s bed, struggling to swallow the soup she shoved down his throat. 

After he’d woken up that second time, had held her hands in thanks and gratitude. Cool and soft against her swollen knuckles. Pressing, and letting go. 

She hadn’t seen her son in two years. Twenty-four hours earlier, she had lost another. 

In the early Munich hours, Rosa Hubermann wept into her palms.


End file.
